


Authoritarian

by DictionaryWrites



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Aromantic!Q, BDSM, Banter, Cock Rings, Dialogue, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M, Masochism, Oral Sex, Paddling, Pain, Scars, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Spanking, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2484869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I saw a post bemoaning the lack of dom!Q: this is going to be dom!Q. There will be 00Q, but to clarify, I'm writing him a firmly aro/homosexual in this fic.</p><p>Q arrives in his lab to find a gift awaiting him from his favourite 00 agent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Coat

He'll go out on Saturday, Q thinks as he walks down the stairs towards his office in the lab. He's in a good mood, and it's a good week, and Saturday will leave the club busy enough; Lord knows Q works too much these days, and a night out in  _this_  sort of club will be a nice diversion.

No jeans, of course, and Q's never been one for fetish gear; he'll wear smart black trousers and decent brogues, a tight blue shirt with emphasis on the little muscle he has beneath. He's not a muscle man like the men in MI6, and his stomach is soft as anything, but his arms are toned and his chest is not  _awful_  to consider.

He'll pick one man or another – he's not one for romance, no, but a sexual encounter now and then can be a tremendous thing, and God knows he likes to take a  _sub_  once in a while. The club is well-run, and there's usually someone or other willing to have a one night stand...

The Quartermaster stops short in the entrance to his office, a slight frown marring his features.

It is on the back of Q's computer chair as he enters his lab, laid neatly over its wide leather back and hanging down: it doesn't touch the floor. A few inches' worth of space are there between its hem and the tile of the floor – it's  _shorter_  than he'd usually expect.

Q sips detachedly at his tea, regarding the lab coat as if it has offered him some sort of challenge – it oughtn't be there. Even his predecessor hadn't left his coat there – he'd hung his own on the back of the door.

Q doesn't wear a lab coat. He doesn't play with silly explosions and experimentations: he simply sets out his work via computer simulations, and works the experiments with robotics. A lab coat seems archaic – a relic, almost, symbolic of a position that has evolved into something different.

He is Quartermaster, certainly, but equipment is no longer gadgetry: it's simple, pragmatic, stream-lined and utilitarian. And, for the most part, it doesn't explode.

Frowning, he takes a step forwards, setting his mug down on the desk. He'll be able to run through his security footage for his office, after all, and see who precisely in MI6 had elected to leave something so bizarre in place, but for the time being he wishes to examine the coat itself.

He pulls it up from the chair, feeling the heavy white fabric in his hands, feeling the coarseness of the texture; the fabric is not especially thin, in order that chemicals be held back from the skin and the clothes beneath, but it seems  _small_ , for a lab coat.

Q holds it by its shoulders, lifting it to examine the thing more closely, and he tilts his head just slightly, a small frown twisting his lips. On the breast, above the pocket, is an embroidered Scrabble tile in green thread at its outline, the Q and small 10 marked in black.

After a pause, he slips an arm into one of the sleeves, pulling it on; it fits him perfectly, stopping short above his knee without having some sort of ridiculous length; it cinches at his waist and doesn't weigh itself down and make him boxy.

“Bond,” He says aloud, and he watches the agent shift his head rapidly; idiot had thought Q couldn't  _see_  him in the reflection of the sample fridge to the side. Was there no  _end_  to his narcissism? Did he really think himself infallible? “Did you have this tailored for me?”

He turns, and it is automatic: Q's hands slip into the pockets of the coat as if they're meant to be there, and he feels so unexpectedly  _comfortable_  in his old-fashioned white coat. Bond looks at him with an innocent expression. “You don't like it?”

“Curiously, 007, that doesn't answer my question.” Q says in a dry tone, but he supposes he ought have expected Bond to sidestep the question. Bond begins to make his way forwards in long, loping steps, walking as if he owns the place, as if he's comfortably in his  _own_  territory and not in Q's.

“It looks good on you.” Bond says quietly, and he reaches forwards, beginning to press the buttons of the coat together and close it over Q's tie and his cardigan. “Suits your skinny arms and legs.”

“I'm not skinny, Bond.” Q says, but despite himself he leans forwards, better allowing the agent to continue until all the buttons have been pressed together, and his lab coat is completely closed.

“Tell that to all those bones I see whenever you stretch.” Q snorts, amused, and then asks, once again, “Did you have this tailored for me?”

There is a pause.

Bond's hands are lingering over Q's chest, and Q can feel a ghost of how warm the older man's hands are even through the thick of the fabric and through the layers beneath. “It's tradition.” He says finally.

“It's archaic.”

“ _Traditional.”_

“You're a dinosaur.”

“M used to say that.” Bond says affectionately, and he adjusts Q's collar. Q raises an eyebrow; inwardly he blanches, worried he'd touched a nerve, but then Bond dips, and he presses his mouth to Q's.

Q is being kissed by James Bond.

 _ **Christ.**_  He finds himself pressing into it despite his better judgement, one of his hands finding its way into Bond's blazer and pressing against the inviting heat of the other's chest.

“I should hope you didn't do that to her.” Q manages to say when Bond finally draws back from it, and he's slightly breathless, his lips parted, his heart beating faster than before.

“She never wore a lab coat.” Bond points out.

“Is that what does it for you?”

“Oh, yeah.” Q laughs, deeply amused, and then he sorts out the other's tie with his hands, smirking somewhat. “Do you like the Scrabble tile?”

“I thought it was a nice touch. Thank you, 007.” Q says, and he wonders what to do about that kiss – ought he  _encourage_  Bond, play with him as Moneypenny can, or outright refuse a repetition? He certainly won't entertain the idea of romance - the idea is positively revolting, but perhaps he'll allow Bond  _some_  excitement.

“Q.” The agent says as he begins to walk away. He raises an eyebrow.

“Bond?”

“Come out for dinner with me tonight.” Q laughs again, and the sound comes more airily than before.

“No.” Q says. Was it ever a question? He'll  _tease._ He'll have to send Eve a text later, and they'll both push his buttons at once, see how long it takes for him to become frustrated and walk out in a sulk.

“But,  _Q,_ ” Bond purrs, seductively, and when Q glances at him he has a honey-sweet smile on his face. “It's tradition.”

“Far be it from  _me_  to stand in the way of  _tradition._ ” Q retorts sarcastically, and for a moment he lets Bond force his smirk, believing Q would allow him no leeway at all. Then, he says in a clean tone, “You may take me for lunch.”

“ _May_  I?”

“The sushi place in Oxford Circus.” Q agrees, with a nod of his head. There isn't a  _moue_  on Bond's face, but there's a ghost of a pout beginning there.

“B-”

“No buts, no ifs.” Q interrupts him, and he offers Bond a  _winning_  smile, adjusting the lab coat. Fuck tradition; Bond's never bought a lab coat for anyone in his life, and why he particularly wants to see  _Q_  in one Lord knows. “Choose yes or no.” He delights in this, in taking away Bond's control of the situation; inwardly he has a flicker of an  _intriguing_  image, seeing James Bond on his knees with a strip of black leather about his neck.

Bond swallows as subtly as he can, but Q can still see the slight bob of that  _charming_  Adam's apple in his throat.

“You're very  _demanding_ , aren't you?” Q smiles at him, and reconsiders his plans for Saturday night. How funny it is - a master of espionage, and Bond has no  _idea_  that his quartermaster goes out and  _doms_  a man once in a while.

“Oh, 007." Q coos at him, lips twitching at his own private joke. "You've  _no_  idea.” 


	2. Chapter 2

He keeps the lab coat on. He doesn't know why he feels so very comfortable in it, but it does suit him and the pockets are decent enough on hand; moreover, many of the 00 agents do a double-take when they see him in the halls, and Mallory stares speechlessly at him for a few moments before offering him his brief.

Q is in a good mood for the sake of that; God knows he takes more satisfaction than correct in terrorizing the agents, and he's _heard_ some of the things muttered amongst them in the halls and in their own offices; if they'll call him a fuckable _twink_ once he's out of sight, the least he can do is utterly terrify them when he's got them in front of him.

It's not that he feels he has something to prove – no, if _that_ was the issue he'd correct the agents out of line more verbally, bluntly.

Perhaps he's just got a thing for seeing hardened people being intimidated by him.

Q smirks to himself as he removes the coat, hanging it on the back of his chair and picking up his actual overcoat in order for him to go upstairs and meet Bond.

Yes, that's probably it.

“On the underground, then?” Bond asks despondently; he's positively _sulking_ at the idea of a sushi lunch, it seems.

“We'll walk.”

“Walk? That's half an hour!”

“So it is.” Q agrees, hands in his pockets once he zips his coat up. His stomach twists hard at the thought of getting on the underground, and his chest feels tight even as he tries to bring his mind back to more comfortable subjects. “But then, for a man so physically unfit, I suppose-”

“I'm more physically fit than _you_ , Q.” Bond says, and then he leans, his mouth hovering over the younger man's ear as they walk. Q's brisk steps fit well with Bond's casual lope for the sake of their difference in height, and Bond has no trouble letting his breath run heatedly over the flesh there. “Must I call you Q?”

“Yes.” Q says bluntly. Bond's hand lingers on Q's lower back, and a few older ladies glance at them disapprovingly as they walk together. Q, completely consciously, leans slightly into the older man and _beams_ at the three women.

They mutter amongst themselves in a scandalized fashion.

“There's nothing else I could call you?” Q lets out a quiet hum, deliberating.

“I suppose there's one other option.” He allows reluctantly, and he feels Bond tense slightly behind him; all the info in his file is heavily redacted and available only for Mallory's perusal, so even for a master spy it's _terribly_ difficult to get hold of. Particularly a master spy getting on in ears.

“Yes?”

“You could call me _sir._ ” Bond _snorts_. Q's lips twitch amusedly at the agent's apparent disbelief.

“Like Hell.” Q entertains the thought for a few moments, Bond on his knees and calling Q “sir”, drawing out the sibilance of the “s” with an irritating smirk on his face; saying the word with complete disrespect in mind.

Unprofessional, certainly, and out of Q's ability to arrange, but it certainly _is_ a delight to consider.

“Q it is, then.” He replies in a dry tone, and Bond's arm now comes about his hip properly; Q leans against him a they continue to walk, not making his intrigue obvious. Bond is fond of physical contact, Q knows, and he certainly jumps into his “relationships” - and indeed, his partners' underwear – very quickly, but Q is surprised he's willing to be so publicly affectionate.

Q doesn't like it, particularly, but he'll indulge it for the time being; Bond will likely lose interest soon enough, when Q proves himself not to be particularly pliable or interested in Bond's romanticism. Casual sex would be _nice_ , though Christ knows if Bond attempts flowers a _serious_ conversation will be made necessary.

They walk in silence for a time, and then Bond says, “Will you call me James?”

“Why the sudden _interest_ , Bond?” Q asks, voice cutting sharply through the air.

“Because you're pretty.” Bond is the only agent that will think of Q as a fuckable twink both in conversation _and_ behind his back. Q catches the arm around his waist by the wrist and removes it. Bond smirks at him. “Because you're _clever_?”

Q ignores him, his hands returning to his pockets as they continue to move. “Because you're _gorgeous_ , perhaps? Because I really enjoy how you look in a white lab coat? Because you've got a _lovely_ London accent?”

“I'm not from London.” Q says lightly. “But please, do continue to fish. Eventually you'll get somewhere close.” Bond's expression is analytical, and Q considers what to say. “I'm aromantic, Bond. Do you know what that means?”

“Not a clue.”

“I suggest you find out, then.” Q advises, and Bond looks somewhat amused, but his phone comes out all the same; nothing had made Q happier than when Bond had _finally_ relented and allowed Q to equip him with an iPhone. Heavily modified by Q himself, of course, but still a decent phone.

There is a decent pause as Bond taps in the word and glances through a few articles. Q allows him silence; he half expects to hear “Does this actually exist?”, but surprisingly enough, Bond proves himself capable of keeping his “traditional” idiocy in his mouth for a while.

Very thoughtful of him.

“Alright.” Bond says finally. He manages not to sound completely disapproving, and Q's lip twitches. While Bond's ridiculous prejudices can be very amusing to witness, objectively, Q appreciates that he can hold them back for his sake. “No flowers, then.”

“I'd drop you immediately.” Q agrees, and Bond chuckles quietly. “Here we are.” Q says lightly, gesturing to the restaurant easily enough. “Ready?”

“I don't think I can manage it, Q.” Bond says in a faux-desperate tone. “Hold my hand.” Q walks into the restaurant and lets Bond follow behind him.

They settle across from each other, and Q makes his order rapidly enough; he takes a vegetarian platter, though Bond has no similar concerns and takes the first platter listed on the menu.

“Do you like sushi, Bond?” Q asks, and Bond shrugs, beginning to eat. Q is unsurprised to see Bond eat sushi with his hands, carefully and neatly. He's fastidious about the way he adds sauce, and he doesn't speak as he eats. Of course he knows _proper_ sushi etiquette: no doubt he learned it in the middle of Tokyo twenty years ago.

Q doesn't bother. It's a chain store, and he has no care for faffing about with such things for the time being; if it were a decent restaurant, he would. Of course, he's yet to find a sushi restaurant he considers decent in London.

“Did you start eating sushi when you grew up in Glasgow, or...?”

“I don't think you're even trying, Bond.” Q says disapprovingly, and Bond smirks to himself, revealing that he is not in fact trying at all. “I'm certain you could _utilize_ your numerous skills in espionage to pick out an unmodified copy of my file, you know.”

“Ah, but the road less travelled by...” Q rolls his eyes, unamused. Across the restaurant, three girls sat together titter, and Q wonders if they think he's out for sushi with his dad. He's not particularly attracted to women, as a whole, but it's an attention he's willing to entertain if they'll ask if it's “his dad's birthday”.

Q leans slightly, catches one of their eyes, and offers a carefully calculated shy smile before dropping his gaze, leaning to the side and hiding his body in front of Bond's.

“Are you trying to make them think I'm your father?”

“You could be, for all I know. How old are you again?” Bond kicks him under the table, and Q laughs, head tipping back as he eats another piece of sushi. “They already think you're my father. I just happen to be continuing the ambiguity of our public relationship.”

“I bet you say that to _all_ the boys.” Bond complains, and Q chuckles, leaning across the table and grasping Bond by the collar, pulling him forwards and pressing his lips hard against Bond's.

He's not taken by surprise where the initiation of _this_ kiss is concerned, and so Bond doesn't dominate it as he had before; he actually yields somewhat, apparently enjoying a hint of dominance from Q.

Oh, the _places_ that takes Q's train of thought.

He draws back. The three young women are now quiet, and speaking seriously to each other. Well, two of them are. One of them looks positively _awed_ – perhaps she's never seen two men kiss in public before.

Or perhaps she still thinks Bond's his father.

“Let me take you out for dinner. Saturday night, my treat. We'll go somewhere Italian.”

“No.” Q says, patting the older man's hand and drawing back before picking up a hosomaki. “I've got plans.” He eats it neatly, not dropping a single piece of rice as he does so, and Bond looks at him thoughtfully, his brow slightly furrowed.

“What sort of plans?”

“Plans that are exactly _none_ of your business.” Q retorts.

“Visiting your family, perhaps? In _Wales_?” The quartermaster chuckles despite himself – if anything, Bond is _tenacious_ in his ridiculous attempts at humorous interrogation, and Q will allow him the boon.

“You've now narrowed it down to a single country. Well done.” comes his praise. “But no, my family will not be involved. And that's all I'll tell you.”

“Can't I come?” Q imagines Bond with his wrists and ankles bound, half-dressed and on display in front of whomever elects to come to the club. The idea of having Bond so _charmingly_ trussed up is by far one of the nicest he's had all day.

“I think not.” He says firmly, and he makes a mental note to be especially careful about keeping Bond off his tail as he goes home that evening. “Shall we go?” Bond reluctantly moves to stand.

“I don't suppose we can get a taxi back?”

“A good walk is good for you, Bond. You're an old man: you need your exercise.” Bond _tuts_ at him, and Q finds himself laughing despite himself.

“I wouldn’t mind a different sort of exercise with you, Q.”

“ _Down_ , boy.” Q scolds him quietly, and his head _reels_ with the most charming of unrevealed context. “Perhaps when I have time.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Q tips his head back in the shower, feeling the hot water rush from the head and spray over his neck, his chest. He runs his hands through his hair, lathering shampoo into the brown locks and delighting in the scent of oranges and honey as it fills up the shower.

He only lets himself use scented shampoos on the weekends – he'd never do it if he didn't have Sundays off, lest one of the agents with a more _sensitive_ olfactory sense make some comment or other. That's the reason for the cardigans and the shirts and the stiff pressed trousers; Q has tight suit trousers in his wardrobe, blazers and jackets that are cinched at the waist and rolled up at the sleeves, collars that splay slightly or dive down to show off his neck.

He'd dressed in his usual smart wear for less than two weeks before the more old-fashioned, admittedly less flattering outfits had been selected instead. Thankfully, Bond had been _dead_ during that time, and had no scope to compare.

Of course, Inkblot has a dress policy, and Q doesn't mind at _all_ breaking out the sexier smart dress for a night out.

He dries himself off quickly enough once he steps out of the shower, and then he makes himself a cup of tea, settling on his sofa and watching the news with an impassive expression as he sips at it, his legs folded comfortably under his body. Q doesn't care so much about being naked – it's his own home, he's on the sixteenth floor of his apartment building, and he has the blinds closed anyway.

Q's flat is sleek, organized and made completely neat; the living room is comfortable enough, with a cream carpet, two leather couches, and all the furniture is matched dark oak furniture. Q wonders, absent-mindedly, what Bond would say as to his décor – Eve had said she'd been surprised, half-expecting Q's “put-togetherness” to end in his own home.

As if there was any _point_ in clutter.

Q grasps at the television remote from the coffee table, turning the television off when the talk turns to the Man City v. Spurs scores, setting it neatly down in its place again before moving into the kitchen.

It's not an especially big set-up: Q has his kitchen, his living room, an admittedly luxurious bathroom and his bedroom. The rent isn't actually _terrible_ , either – or at least, it's as not-terrible as one gets, living in London.

Q rinses his mug in the sink, quickly moving to wash it up before setting it down on the draining board. He glances at the clock; six forty-five. He ought get ready, really. He stretches, hiding a yawn behind his hand and dipping into the bedroom.

He picks out simple enough clothes; tight trousers that hug his hips and accentuate the length of his legs, a dark green shirt that will hug the contours of his chest, and then a waistcoat matched to the trousers. He considers it for a moment, then drops a silk tie on the bed as well.

Q picks a [pair of lace boxers](http://www.lovehoney.co.uk/product.cfm?p=26215) from the drawer to wear underneath – assuming he _does_ take someone to a private room or, better, _home_ tonight, it will be good to titillate somewhat once the clothes come off. Q always enjoys _titillating._

He then picks up a comb and stands in front of the mirror in the bathroom, quickly running it through his hair and ensuring that it's neat enough, having dried naturally. Thoughtfully, he examines his reflection, letting his right hand play over his jaw. He's not grown out a beard in a while – perhaps that's a thought, with the coming November promising to be _freezing._

It's an idea, anyway.

He picks up a leather satchel from the back of his living room door, dropping in a few things; a paddle, two cock rings, some condoms, a bottle of lubricant. A set of nipple clamps are dropped in afterwards, and he smirks to himself as he puts the leather chest at the base of his bed closed again; an Ottoman, though perhaps not utilized for its _intended_ purpose.

Q stands then, his satchel sliding onto his shoulder, and he pulls out his phone.

**To: Skye, 19:03  
Leaving now. I'll be at Inkblot in forty  
minutes or so. Bringing anyone with  
you this evening, pray?**

** To: Q-Tip, 19:03  
no one tonight unfortunately  
u planning on picking   
someone up tonight q?**

**To: Skye, 19:04  
We shall see. I hope so, certainly,  
and like a terribly good boy scout  
I've come prepared.**

** To: Q-Tip, 19:05  
wouldn't mind seeing you  
in a boy scout uniform**

Q snorts to himself, amused, and is about to drop his phone back into his pocket before it vibrates and lights up again. He raises an eyebrow at the notification, tapping it and opening it up.

** To: Q, 19:06 **   
**Have you still got plans  
tonight, Q? I don't   
suppose I could tempt  
you with a pretentious  
vegan restaurant?**

Q raises an eyebrow, adjusting his glasses and looking at the text with a small frown on his face. Bond very rarely _texts_ him, and in fact, very rarely texts at all, from what Q has heard, so this is surprising.

Q knows the text is some ploy or other, but he doesn't wish to leave it completely ignored.

**To: James Bond, 19:06  
Much as I'm sure it  
disappoints you, my plans   
remain quite intact. Another  
night, perhaps.**

**To: James Bond, 19:06  
I'll see you on Monday,  
007.**

And with that, he drops his phone into his pocket again, intending to ignore any further vibrations as he makes his way down the stairs to the ground floor (the idea of being inside an elevator is a horrific thought at the best of times), but none come. Even as he walks through London to the club, his phone remains silent in his pocket, and he finds himself quite pleased with Bond for managing such restraint.

He moves into the building quickly enough; the club is of two floors, the basement with an open room for play and usually demonstrations, and the ground floor equipped with a bar and comfortable furniture laid around. The music, fantastically, is never too loud, and it's honestly no wonder the place is his favourite.

Q moves over to the bar once inside, ordering himself a single glass of dry white wine; it's all he'll drink over the evening, and he'll drink it _very_ slowly indeed, of course. He settles beside one of the counter edges to the side of the room, leaning back against it as he looks around.

It's not _busy_ by any means – not busy in the way regular night clubs are, certainly, but there are people enough scattered about. Skye will arrive soon enough – ze is about Q's age, and ze works in one of the universities, so Q is vaguely aware. Q doesn't mind waiting for hir; it's nice to have another dom to speak with casually, but it's also nice to settle alone and survey those around.

There are a few men he knows are interested in other men; two or three of them look appreciatively in his direction, but Q doesn't preen. He impassively meets each of their gazes, expression unchanging.

Each time, the other man breaks the stare first, glancing down at the floor. One of them blushes.

Q smirks to himself, taking a delicate sip from his glass: it's a very _different_ attitude to the one he gets in MI6.

“I think that man is interested in you.” Q presses his lips together, setting his glass on the counter and turning to _stare_ at Bond. He wears black trousers, expensive shoes, a white shirt that _plunges_ at the chest and shows off an honestly wonderful thatch of chest hair.

“Most of them are.” He retorts in a smooth tone, and Bond grins at him. “I suppose I should have expected this of you when you acted like an adult and didn't pester.” Q says, tone dripping with regret, and Bond grins at him, leaning on the counter across from him.

“003 helped me track your phone.” Bond says, plainly very proud of himself.

“I'll ensure to make her next mission as uncomfortable as possible.” Q says. The “and yours” is communicated silently, but Bond doesn't look particularly put out. He turns his head, looking out across the room and scanning it with interest.

“When you said you had _plans_ , Q, I didn't know they involved finding someone to take you home and spank you.” Q lets his head tip back, and then he outright laughs at the other man; he knows full well how sinfully good his neck must look curved back as it is, and when he finally stops laughing, he meets Bond's gaze with no issue about it.

“Oh, _James,_ ” Q coos at the older man with as much condescension, and he can see Bond's pupils dilate slightly, even in the dim light of the room. “If you came to a BDSM club hoping to find a submissive in _me_ , I suggest you lower your ambitions.”

Q reaches out, catching the other man's shirt collar under his hand and adjusting it slightly. He can feel the _heat_ coming off Bond's body, and suddenly the idea of having Bond to play with seems a far more accessible idea than before, but he won't make his offer yet. No, better to let Bond go off on his own. “Never had you pegged for it.” Bond says, and suddenly his voice is so much lower, much _deeper._ My, isn't someone excited?

“Well, one can hardly fault you for having an _occasional_ issue with perception.” Q purrs, and he taps Bond's cheek affectionately. “Now, off you go. I've got better people to talk with than _you_ , and I'm sure you wish to explore.”

It's not automatic: he has to take a moment's pause to to work up the courage to do it, but then his left hand slips to Bond's lower back, and he pushes the agent firmly on his way. Bond steps away, seeming almost as surprised by his own obedience as Q is, but he says nothing about it. He moves across the room, and then he makes his way downstairs – of course Bond would go for where the action is.

Q looks up, and now he sees Skye as ze comes forwards, setting hir glass on the counter. It's a little below chest height, so both of them lean there, facing each other.

“Who's your friend?” comes the question, German-accented and very amused, and Q lets out a put-upon sigh.

“He works with me.” Q says, and immediately Skye's expression swaps from entertained to concerned. “It's no trouble, really; he's just something of a Casanova. He thought I was a sub.”

“Ah.” Ze says, and ze gives a slow nod of an understanding. “I see.”

Q sighs, sipping at his drink, and then they settle into conversation. It starts with “How was your week?”, and then they move onto other subjects quickly enough, as happens naturally. He likes the other dom well enough, and has known hir for a fair while.

Conversation is pleasant enough, and soon enough they'll move downstairs, he thinks. But not after this _particular_ discussion is over.

"And personally I'm completely tired of SSC being lauded as some sort of be-all, end-all philosophy, particularly given the inherent issues with it.” Q says firmly, with a wave of his hand. “I mean, it's an evolving community rooted in some tradition, but one must accept _progress_."

"I agree.” Ze nods, and ze puts hir chin on hir hand. “But besides, you can't equate archaism and tradition, can you? Like-"

"Excuse me." Q's lips press together as Bond cuts hir off, and Q's neck is stiff as he turns his glance from Skye to the older man. He's been off on his own for an hour or so now, and Q is not particularly pleased with his decision to _interrupt._ All the same, he speaks smoothly, with all the charm he's very capable of. "I just wanted-"

Q reaches out and, in a very deliberate movement, grasps Bond's jaw, pressing down slightly on the sides of his cheeks and forcing his mouth to remain slightly open; Bond's eyes widen and his pupils dilate obviously as Q regards him with a stern expression on his face. It's a bold movement, and while it's not a clearly verbal offer, Bond ought realize what it means.

"If I'm to be seen in public with you, James, I suggest you learn some manners." He speaks in a clipped, sharp tone, brooking neither interruption nor cheek. "And _manners_ include decent posture – straighten your back, man, that slump is embarrassing – and not involving yourself in my conversations. Are we quite clear?"

He feels Bond's jaw shift under his fingers.

"Crystal." Bond says, and then, in a fluid motion Q did not expect at all, he drops to his knees at the side of Q's feet, taking on a posture he'd obviously copied from one of the submissives on the other side of the room. "Is _this_ acceptable?" His tone is all polite defiance, and Q cannot help but be more than a little satisfied at the sight. Beside them, Skye lets out a surprised, amused noise.

"Hands behind your back, chin up." Q corrects, and then he turns back to the other dom, ignoring Bond completely. He's a big boy: he can manage it. "My apologies, Skye; please continue."

Ze is smirking, plainly amused at the interaction ze's just witnessed. In fairness to hir, Q is fairly entertained himself. Even as they speak, however, Q cannot help but think of Bond, completely still at his feet, chin held high, knees slightly spread for the sake of his balance.

“Skye, do you mind if I let you go down alone? I think I've got something to deal with.” Hir lips twitch.

“I see you do.” Ze says with a nod and a wink, and then ze steps aside, giving him a little wave.

“Get up, James.” Bond does, and he meets Q's eyes, looking pleased with himself. “Have you ever engaged in this sort of play?” Q asks, and he speaks bluntly, unwilling to push Bond any further.

“Of course I have.” Bond says with a scoff. Q arches a brow.

“As a submissive partner?” He presses his lips together, regarding the quartermaster for a moment or two.

“I'm willing to try it.” Bond says evasively, and Q chuckles.

“When?” He asks. He oughtn't be surprised by the dissatisfying answer.

“Right now.” Bond says firmly. Q tuts, disapproving.

“Ever the impatient hedonist, aren't you just?” He takes the last sip of his wine and takes the glass, moving up to the bar and setting it on the counter. Q then removes a card from his pocket that Bond strains to get a decent look at, but it's snatched up from the counter by the man behind the bar before he can get a good look.

“How long?”

“Two hours.” Q says smoothly, and Bond frowns slightly as he's given a silver key with a black placard emblazoned with a 2 hanging from the attached ribbon. “Upstairs.” Q says, and Bond raises an eyebrow, following the younger man up a flight of stairs in an off-corridor, to the above floor.

“Ah. Private rooms. Don't have the balls to take it publicly?”

“Come now. I'll hardly humiliate myself with someone below par, Bond.” He says, and he prides himself on the way Bond exhales. James Bond likes to be _degraded._ He opens the door marked two, and then he hands Bond his satchel, letting the older man enter first. “Put everything in that satchel out on the table.”

Bond moves into the room, and he begins to neatly unpack the satchel. The lubricant, condoms, cock rings and clamps settle together neatly on the table; the paddle is laid out with something that resembles reverence evident on his face. His fingers linger on the leather of the tool, and Q watches him for a moment or two, interested.

“Safeword?” Q asks. He glances around the room; he's been in one of these before, but a cursory look is important. There's a bed, a leather couch, the table. To the side of the room are two cabinets, and Q knows from experience they'll include robes and cuffs of various sorts, though nothing compares to utilizing one's own.

“Skyfall.” The hacker has to concentrate in order to prevent himself from flinching at that. Christ, how had that man ever passed his bloody psych exam? He doesn't make a comment, all the same, moving forwards and unbuttoning Bond's shirt, dropping it aside onto the table. He then puts his hands on the other man's belt, unbuckling it and doing the same. “Going to get on your knees and take my shoes off, too?”

“Take the rest of it off.” Q says firmly. “Then onto the bed.” Bond bites at his own lip before he moves aside, kicking off his shoes and leaving them at the bottom of the bed before stripping the last of his clothes off. He puts his hands on his hips, looking at Q confidently as the younger man glances over his body.

His cock is nice enough, thick, decent length; it's beginning to harden between his legs. For an old man, he doesn't much struggle with getting it up, does he? Q is ready to have some _fun_ with that. “Like what you see?”

“Less battered than I expected.” is Q's response. “On the bed, please.”

“Didn't expect you to say _please_.” Bond says, but he sits on the edge of the bed's foot all the same, his legs slightly spread as he leans back on his hands.

“I'm dominant, James, not impolite.” Q removes his tie and sets it aside; the waistcoat follows. Bond watches him eagerly, hungrily, but Q doesn't take anything else off, and simply rolls up his sleeves.

“What if I don't want you to be polite?” Bond asks, and Q lets out an amused hum.

“What do you want me to be, James?” He asks out of curiosity more than anything else: he has his preferences, and he is always firmly a _dominant_ as opposed to a service sub of any sort.

“Positively _authoritarian_.” Q wonders, as an aside, if he'll be able to get Bond to the point this evening where he can't quite muster a cheeky, rapier reply.

“Tell me your limits, James.”

“Should I call you _sir_ now?” Bond asks in a teasing tone, spreading his legs further.

“Your _limits_.” Q repeats. Bond's expression turns to some sort of hardened moue Q has only ever seen on the faces of MI6's 00 agents. It's an odd juxtaposition between terrible and cute.

“Don't have any.” Bond says. Q hums.

“Is that so?” Q takes two fluid steps forwards, reaches between Bond's legs and, with a grim expression on his face, squeezes the older man's balls tightly in his hand. Bond lets out a sharp, pained hiss of sound. There is scar tissue there, Q knows, from Bond's interaction with a man called Le Chiffre a few years back.

Bond takes in a ragged breath. Q deliberately meets the other man's gaze, and Bond grits his teeth.

“Oh, don't you _like_ having your injured testicles crushed in another man's hand? It's a shame there was no opportunity to tell him of that particular limitation.” Bond is straining: Q can tell from the way he's stiffened and from the expression on his face that he wants to punch Q in the face.

He's enjoyed that particular facial expression before.

Q lets go, and then he stands, catching Bond under his chin and tilting his head up so that the agent meets Q's gaze, even as the younger man looks down at him. “This is not an interrogation. I am not requiring your weaknesses of you. Just tell me what you don't _like_ , and what you don't want me to _do_ , in order that we both enjoy this.”

“I never dommed like this.” Bond says, as if that's relevant or even halfway important.

“Then you're a shit dom.” Q retorts immediately, and Bond recoils slightly, apparently surprised by that particular response. “You like to be degraded.” Bond scoffs.

“I-”

“You like leather, and you want me to spank you with that paddle.” Bond's lip curls, and he shifts back in his place, looking up at Q with that half-snarl plain on his face. “You want me to smack your arse until it's glowing red, and then you want me to tell you you're _pathetic_ , and that you _deserve_ it, and that I could easily take advantage of you any time I had you at MI6.”

Bond's tongue darts from his mouth, dragging momentarily over his lips. “Yes.”

“Tell me what your limits are.”

“Don't touch the scars.”

“Keep going.”

“Don't choke me. Don't try and hold me down; no bondage.”

“Very well. You'll hold yourself in place via self- _control_ , then.” Q says, and Bond shivers. “Oh, you really _do_ like an authoritarian, don't you?”

“Give me the rules.” Bond says, and Q chuckles, reaching out and grasping at Bond's jaw once again. Bond _likes_ to be held like this, it seems: even the smallest of controls are exciting to him.

“You don't come without my permission.”

“Standard. Unimaginative.” Oh, Q is going to get very tired, very _soon_ , of Bond's running commentary.

“You take what I give you.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Call me _sir._ ”

“Yes, _sir!_ ”

“You don't talk back.”

“That sound-” Bond's head whips to the side as Q slaps him hard across the face, and Bond remains in place, taking in speeded breaths as he processes what Q had just done.

“That sounds just fine, sir.” Q finishes for him.

“That sounds just fine, sir.” Bond repeats quietly, and his head slowly turns for him to look up at Q. The scowl has faded: Bond's lips are parted, his pupils wide, and there is an expression of grudging respect on his face.

“Good _boy_.” Q says, voice dripping with sarcasm. Bond's nostrils flare. Q steps away, and he leans deliberately at the waist to pick the clamps off the table. He doesn't need to be watching Bond to know the agent is eagerly watching his backside, after all – he turns on his heel, then, and he steps forwards, putting each of the clamps on Bond's nipples.

The agent lets out a contented little hiss as Q ensures they're tight on the skin, and then he adjusts the chain between them before hooking it and putting the links of metal between Bond's lips. The agent takes it obediently, and his eyes follow Q as he steps away again.

“I think I'd like to have that cock inside me tonight, James.” Q listens to the sound he'd expected to hear; a spit, and then the thin chain dropping to Bond's chest again.

“I think I'd like that too.” Bond says, and Q smirks to himself, picking up one of the rings and stepping forwards, putting it around the other's cock with no compunction about doing so. “I'd like to feel that slutty, twink's arse squeezing tight around me.”

“If you want me to smack you in the face again, James, you can ask for it.” Q wraps his hand around Bond's cock, jacking him slowly, deliberately, squeezing at the flesh. And then he flicks the switch on the vibe of it: Bond _convulses,_ letting out a ragged moan.

“Please, sir,” Bond says quietly, in a light and gently sarcastic tone. “May I have some more?” Q's left hand smacks hard across the other's face; in his right, he feels Bond's cock pulse. Q grasps at the chain and wrenches it down _hard_ , and Bond takes in a harsh gasp, arching his back.

“I could have you over any surface in MI6.” Bond lets out a shuddered noise, and Q squeezes Bond's cock, enjoying the way the vibrations play through the length of it. “Is that what you want, you kinky, _unprofessional_ scoundrel?”

Bond grins at him.

“You could have me over Mallory's desk.” He suggests, and Q digs his nails _hard_ into the meat of Bond's thigh. Bond moans like the masochist he is.

“Get up.” Q says sharply, and Bond does, standing up, but he's down within two seconds, because Q rapidly twists him by the hips and throws him down again, on his belly.

“Going to spank me?”

“Are you going to like it?” Q asks in return, and he takes a step back, picking up the leather paddle. It's a simple thing, but it's small and well-made, easy to handle and easier to clean; it is most definitely a favourite toy of his.

He gives no warning in the way he gives no quarter: the paddle whistles down and smacks hard against the other man's arse, and Bond lets out a sharp hiss, jolting forwards.

“Close your legs.” Q advises when Bond's thighs spread of their own accord.

“You calling me a whore?”

“I'm calling you an old man with sore balls.”

“Point taken.” Bond says, and he presses his knees together. Q brings the paddle down again, and again, and again; he doesn't give the other soft blows, because Bond can take it, and soon enough the older man's arse and thighs are red and marked with the spanks in quick succession.

Q delights in the eroticism of having one of the most irritating agents in the department at his (not-so-tender) mercies. Q throws the paddle aside, and then says, voice low, “On your back.” Q is not shy about removing his clothes: the shirt comes off, the shoes are kicked off, and he shimmies from the trousers.

Bond lets out a low, appreciative whistle when he sees Q's lace-encased backside.

“Hands above your head, crossed over each other.” There is no sound in the room except for the agent's harsh breathing and the buzz of the cock ring's vibrator (and Bond has managed to make no complaint about it yet, which has Q impressed most of all). “Do you like my boxers, Bond?”

“ _Love_ them.” Bond says, and Q chuckles.

“Perhaps I'll let you wear them home.” He says lightly, and then he wriggles out of them, dropping them aside. Q keeps his back to Bond, and he doesn't look back, instead picking up the bottle to quickly slick up three fingers and prepare himself in a rapid fashion.

Bond wishes he could see it, Q knows. He can hear the clink of that cheap silver chain as he strains his neck to look.

Q picks up a condom, and he opens it up, sliding it down Bond's cock and adjusting the cock ring to accommodate the latex. Bond's wrists remain crossed over each other, and he looks up at Q with sex-charged admiration in his features.

“Aren't you _pretty_?” Bond asks in a purr. His gaze moves rapidly over Q's body, and it's only now that the hacker becomes completely aware of how _hard_ he'd become in the past twenty minutes or so.

“That's what Gary says if I'm well-behaved enough.” Q simpers, and Bond looks at him with an expression of momentary horror. Q laughs at him, and at the idea of trying to seduce Gareth Mallory. Bond lets out a breathy laugh, apparently amused at having been taken by Q's joke for just a moment.

He's more _gullible_ when there are clamps on his nipples and a buzzing ring around his cock. Who would have thought?

Q positions himself over Bond, lining himself up with his hands flat on the agent's chest, and then he lowers himself down tightly, taking the older man's cock head and freezing in place; Bond lets out a low groan.

The younger man reaches out, grasping at the chain on the clamps and pulling at it as he lowers himself down; he twists the ring at the base of Bond's cock, ensuring the vibrator presses directly against the back of his balls, and he lets out a choked, harsh little noise, arching his back as he fucks himself firmly down onto Bond's cock.

With his left hand he continues to pull at intervals on the chain, and with the right he steadies himself on Bond's chest: with that, he speeds the shift of his hips, fucking himself down, and down, and Christ, he'd gotten more hot and bothered in the process of teasing Bond than he'd realized. He chases his own orgasm, focusing on his self for the time being, and he comes quickly, his come spatters over Bond's stomach.

Bond looks in _pieces_ when Q finishes, lifting himself up, and he pulls off the condom, tying it off and throwing it in a waste bin. The cock ring comes off to, set aside to be washed when he takes it home. His wrists are still crossed over his head – so _obedient._ Christ, this is better than Q could have imagined.

“You can move your hands.” Q says, and Bond's arms immediately shift, his hands settling at his sides. Bond's lips twitch; he's debating asking a question. Q watches him, expectantly, then says, “You've permission to speak.”

He doesn't think he's imagining the way Bond's hips _cant._ “Will you, _sir_ , please suck my cock?” Q leans, and he drags his tongue deliberately over the length of Bond's prick, feeling his thighs quake under his hands as he does so.

“You may come.” Q says, in a low voice, and then he wraps his lips about Bond's head, sucking as hard as he can before pressing his tongue against Bond's frenum.

The other's ejaculate is bitter in his mouth, too much alcohol and not enough _fruit_ , but Q swallows all the same, and then he puts his elbows on Bond's knees, resting his chin on his hands, and looks at the older man expectantly.

“Authoritarian enough for you?” Bond's head drops back, and he lets out an exhausted sound; Q imagines they will have repeat performance after repeat performance, and is somewhat satisfied.

Professionalism aside, Q's done rather well this week. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to make any requests, my ask is [here](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/ask), and my [ commission info is here](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/post/95787169223/check-me-out-on-ao3-my-writing-tumblr-or).


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